


Drabbles of Football

by Xerethra



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Character Study, Drabble, Football, Football | Soccer, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Realistic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2018-10-05 00:06:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10292957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xerethra/pseuds/Xerethra
Summary: This might turn into a Drabble collection of football, addressing mostly Sergio/Cristiano with themes probably mostly being kitchen sink realism, character studies, angst, hurt/comfort - we'll see.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> During the latest CL game against Napoli the Swedish commentators mentioned that Cristiano seemed so listless, doing almost nothing, just standing around (eye roll) but it made write this at least, so.

A second goal, his stubborn head colliding with a flying football, euphoria when it sweeps past defenders and goalkeeper alike, the surging energy flowing through his veins, pumping pumping, a scream tickling in his throat, a smile flashing. Hands that grab him in gratitude, cheerfulness, some circling in to hug, to cling or to pat - the boys on the benches flowing in to the pitch to share in his celebration - their celebration - scored by their capitán - hungry, ambitious, deadly on set pieces. 

Sergio doesn’t recall if Cristiano joined him, that last goal of his, he doesn’t always, though by the years Cristiano had found it easier to find joy in the goals of his teammates. When he does, Cristiano usually favours a quick hug, if it can be called that, when Cristiano only put an arm around you whilst Sergio uses his whole body, or hands stretched out to let finger caress, a grin of relief, joy for the defender, their capitán, a pride somewhere in there for the world class defender that doesn’t let limits hold him back but chases the goals as much as those who’s places are at the top of the playing field of theirs. 

It would have been brilliant if a mere touch of Cristiano could vibrate and tease the atoms he is made of, that he amongst a sea of bodies, hands and limbs entangled could pick out his fingers through the jersey of his shirt, but he can’t. Not that there is any lack of emotions, understanding, sharing, but because life isn’t so simple and romantic as novels and romantic pictures would like it to be. Amongst a sea of flesh, Cristiano’s flesh doesn’t register different. But a hand on his back, at least, for they don’t begrudge each other goals; they are not childish like that, these ambitious team-oriented souls that they are. A goal is a goal is a goal and in the moment when Sergio gets to feel the rush of a goal, here the cheers of their fans and the whistles or silence of the fans of the other team, the shouts and smiles of their team, feel the relief, the rush of blood, the intense nothingness of accomplishment, it’s a feeling like no other. Cristiano supposes Sergio feels something similar when he thoroughly, hot-headedly, defends his goal and keeper, but scoring… there’s nothing that beats that.

And whilst Sergio knows that Cristiano feels nothing than happiness and swelling heart at that magical moment when football caresses the net, tossed by the thick head few posses like Sergio, Sergio isn’t blind. At his position at the back, with a full view of players and ball, Sergio sees. And it’s not the sharp eye of a captain eager and calculating, but as a person caring and loving. Cristiano hasn’t spoken with words these last couple of matches passing without goals lacking when needed, when the most important, but he doesn’t have to. At the beginning it was probably only noticed by Sergio, as he had learned to read that body both from near and afar, years of watching, learning, remembering, admiring, caressing. But during this game, the signs of Cristiano’s distress is beaming like a lighthouse. On the field, Cristiano hasn’t been one to hold back the emotions running through him - something that they both share - and it’s with the uncaring wearing of the coat of feelings that judging people have picked up as ammunition for their nails and hammers, spit and ridicule. Hands and fists that smacks the ground when a ruling doesn’t go Cristiano’s way, or when nothing happens at all - all those kicks and bumps and shoulders and elbows, feet and sharpness that is thrown at Cristiano with no eyes seeing or when Cristiano in frustration exaggerates his fall to get something out of all the hundreds of ignored ones, it’s used against him. And then, the fists or the arms flailing in the air, face twisted in anger and underneath, bathing in his eyes, the hopelessness, the hurt, even. 

The spitting, the stomping of his feet, arms wresting in the air above and before him, fingers finding the plains and sharpness of his face, the softness of his sweat-damped hair, to find balance, a grip. Yes, Cristiano wears his emotions plain and uncaring on the field, and even though Sergio at moments have had to tell Cristiano to damper his irritation, or has been carried away in the numbing happiness when a football hits just so, Sergio doesn’t valuate Cristiano’s temper and antics - it is as is, whatever opinion he or other might have with the easiness of some falls, the glares and gestures, at Cristiano himself the most, but that could be read as anger at those that had failed to place that ball just right. 

Sergio prefers all that than with the listlessness of Cristiano, right in front of him now. With the temper and falls and the tears and the shouts there are passion, hope, a headspace that there is a future beyond this game, another chance - if not now than later (though now would have been preferred, because they are just like that, winning and winning or it’s not as good), young and hopeful and full of time - but Cristiano seems burdened now, hold back by the numbing emotion-killing force that is frustration. Real, heavy, grabbing frustration. And yes, Cristiano is all too aware of the expectations put on him, by fans and press and peers, but nothing is more deadly than the expectations he has on himself. And now, it is killing him. Cristiano, slowed down, not by the nature of ageing, and Sergio doesn’t want to believe that it is due to a lack of hope, a loss of belief in himself, but damn, Cristiano hasn’t been himself. He has kept himself on his edge mostly, rarely venturing down to help the defence, done nothing in particular - yes, a shot smacking the goalpost and Sergio could feel the knotting of his belly and the surge of hope before it died down just like it was he that was so near to finally break free, again.

Sergio is aware that he is judging Cristiano by standards that are not fair, standards that further tightens Cristiano’s shoulders because fuck, a few games dry spell is normal, dear God, but not for the world and most importantly, not for Cristiano. Cristiano who has shouldered the transformation into a machine, bronze skin his warm tin. A machine built to produce, to stand whippings and insults. A machine further added to by Cristiano, to keep at bay, a shield of protection so fine-tuned it has difficulties recognising friend from foe, a installation that has fine-tuned his emotions; those that are allowed, on the pitch, at awards, but nothing beyond that, his walls so high, so thick that Cristiano couldn’t see any more, and few bothered to climb, higher than Mount Everest. 

But Sergio had, tumbling down, but keeping going up, and up. He is stubborn, A boy of Sevilla not thrown or intimidated when the bull is snorting, scraping it’s foot against the sand, head bowed, weary, ready for attack. Sergio hadn’t, yet, managed to knock the wall down, only Cristiano could do so, and with the touch that made a captain a memorable one, a good one, Sergio balanced on the brink of encouragement and self-growth, giving tools but letting Cristiano take the step. Sergio wouldn’t push, Cristiano a grown man to lead his own life, all the while showing how utterly human Sergio too was. Rumbling, bumbling, stubborn fools, the two of them. But all the same, in each other’s life in more than one way, as long as possible.

Yes. And Sergio doesn’t pity Cristiano there, when Sergio screams in happiness, because Cristiano doesn’t deserve pity. Nor while Sergio later, in the locker room, give Cristiano a private pep-talk. It’s not the time nor place, and Cristiano wouldn’t take in what he would be saying, anyway. It would be the general pats and roughing that followed a win, and they both would smile and laugh, be boys again for a little while. 

But later, when they weren’t surrounded by sweat and socks and jerseys and shin-guards, later when they were just them, plain and simple, Sergio would stretch out his arms, strong and protecting and welcoming, eyes locked on Cristiano to pick up a signal of warning, but would find none. Then, Sergio would sweep Cristiano in a hug full of warmth only Sergio could give, hard chest against hard chest, one’s head hiding in the crook of shoulder and neck. Heart against heart, the love of Sergio would flow in the rhythm of his heart beat, reaching to oil the beating heart of Cristiano, underneath the tin of warm bronze.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cristiano were replaced during the La Liga game against Athletic Bilbao.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the game 17-03-18 against Athletic Bilbao made me write this.

Any other time Cristiano would have been livid had he been pulled of the grass. The hunger for success, to win, to fight himself, become better, better, better, hitting that ball they’re all chasing in the net again and again and again. The frustration of having being replaced would have been all over him, the grim setting of his mouth, the flare in his eyes, in the movements and gestures of his body. Once, he wouldn’t have been afraid to show his trainer either, be it either that Cristiano needed to be saved for a more important game or that they all felt so confident to win so the younger, fresh players, the stars of the future, would be exercised. None of that would have mattered to Cristiano, for there and now, it was all about him bettering himself, playing against himself, proving to himself, the he was good, good enough to have come this far, that he had deserved it, that all he had gone through had been worth it, and that he wouldn’t let his family down. Never, would he do that.

But tonight, he accepted Zidane’s decision. There were no drama, no muttering words of anger, of him refusing to clap hands with trainer nor assistant, no flare when he went to take his seat. He took his place beside Luka, full lips parted, no lines of anger, frustration, despair. 

It was what it was. 

And it wasn’t that he still didn’t have that drive, that need to play that once had prompted him as a little boy to always carry around his ball; his safety blankets, his dreams away from a desperate, lost island into a future brilliant and nice. It was just that, a deep rooted fear, one that had always ridden him, but now, he would need to learn to tame it, this future that is drawing closer and closer yet, the one were him and his ball wouldn’t conquer the world any longer, where he would just be a name in the history books, the one boys and girls would strive to be like, to be better like, to replace.

A future he could not run away from. But he did try, still, yet he couldn’t be blind to tis his steps getting slower, his goals fewer, his passes to mates becoming more, other’s slowly taking his place. The team needed to come to terms with that, as much as he did. 

A struggle, a tremendous struggle, but he tried to time it. He built hotels and put up shops, sold trinkets and a walking, talking, acting advert, pulling together a gym; find a person, some one to be, that wouldn’t make his skin itch of longing for the past and was once was but were no more, some one he could be satisfied with, once it all was over. When the time came he wouldn’t be one of the rival two; the absolut best of their generation. 

Sergio sunk down in the set next to him on the bus to take them closer to home. Cristiano had his headphones on, the hood of his sweater pulled down over his forehead. Sunken down, and perhaps Sergio had read it as betterment, that diva sulking that did claim him now and then. Those soft, questioning eyes travelling over the slumping body, concern tickling a frown over Sergio’s face.

“You good?” Sergio asked, with tones neutral concerned in that melody of a captain speaking to a team mate rather than something else entirely, and Cristiano already turned to face Sergio whilst fingers had moved to free his ears from the embrace of empty, heavy headphones.

“We won,” Cristiano answered, the hills of his lips pulling into a smile; generic, yet mild, but camera ready rather than the soft genuine smiles of privacy. And Cristiano was glad, relieved as always when they did good, when they could continue their path to sweet, alluring, dangerous victory. 

“Nice pass there, hey,” Sergio answered, as casually, whilst his shoulder lightly bumped against Cristiano’s, a boyish playful gesture of encouragement. 

“Hm. And nice temper, captain.” Cristiano’s smile winded somewhat, became more crooked in mischief, sparkles of nostalgia glaring in his eyes, a silent longing, perhaps, to times when Sergio could let his Spanish passion run more freely, when there wasn’t a band around his muscular arm that prompted, and mostly managed to produce, a more adult, proper behaviour, worthy of a team captain of rang. 

Sergio huffed, rolling his eyes, as if he too wanted to avoid that sparkle in Cristiano’s eyes, that deep well of everything that would terrify them both to dive into. So they became silent and the bus had started it’s journey to bring it’s passengers one bit closer to home. 

Cristiano leaned back into the seat, Sergio hunched forward, hands clapped in his lap, looking down as Cristiano looked into the darkness of the world, the black of night punctured, guided by the street lamps. 

“It is what is it,” Cristiano answered, plain and shallow, though his mouth was more set, as when he concentrated or held something back. “The nature of things. So I have to make places, accept the unchangeable, no?” Voice quiet, not because the meaning of it all was something that Cristiano despite everything could not accept, but because they were on a bus, on a bus where they usually didn’t talk but it was heavy, this sack, like a parasite digging deeper and deeper driving him crazy, a malady that could only be cured by acceptance. 

“You still have lot in you, you know. We both do. You’re just getting down to the level the rest of us are running around on.” Sergio grinned, full alluring lips soothing as much as that always constant puppy look of soft, gentle eyes. 

It was Cristiano’s time to roll his eyes, gliding deeper down into his seat as he crossed his arms across his chest. It was a nice line of comfort, and that was all it was. It wasn’t the truth. Sergio became better with age, shaping into this mature, hard-headed, loyal, caring soul that fit perfectly into the role that band of cloth revealed he was. A defender, a captain, and all that he was now, Sergio couldn’t have been years ago. 

“But look at you,” Cristiano said. “Just look at you.” A chuckle, instead of the hearty laugh he had sounded when he was a young boy and used to tease his teammates. But now, just a chuckle, as not to break this bubble of theirs, where he Cristiano felt comfortable enough to talk about nothing yet everything. “Tan, scrubby, hair gone. Wrinkles around your eyes.” The tugging smile of teasing softened, a second of pure gentle adoration, until he got it in charge again, tuning into tearful nostalgia. “You are getting old, Ramos.”

Sergio raised one elbow to find Cristiano’s side, the physical language of boys, but it was a soft connection, as if the longing of boyhood with a full future ahead was too heavy.

“At least we’ve never looked better,” Sergio answered with a snort, trying to hold onto the cape of stars harder than Cristiano, this time. “Fixing those teeth? Good investment. Though, that curly hair of yours; let it out more. It’s too adorable.” Sergio reached inside the grey hood that still shielded Cristiano’s head, and ruffled the freshly washed and manipulated hair, mischievously, yet his fingers ran through the tresses soothingly, gentle in love. 

Cristiano pushed Sergio’s hand away, fingertips tingling in longing, stinging in warning. 

“As I’d ever trust your taste in hair,” Cristiano answered, pulling the hood back in place, putting lips that tugged in the corners before being pressed together. 

And they both could say no more there, at that time, as there were so much to be said they knew not where to begin. But both knew that on this bus the truths and freights could not be voiced more than what had passed already; the capturing of uncertain futures to be done in privacy, together and in their lonesomes. 

So Sergio grabbed Cristiano’s shoulder, hugged it with strong fingers, a pat of encouragement, from captain to to fourth captain, mate to mate.

And then Sergio got up, to find his own seat on the bus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've not been this creative, this able to write, for years, it feels like. Good that matches are turning to be a gold mine, this far.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own above mentioned persons, teams or any other than can be connected to real life persons. I don't get any money out of this and it's all imagination and doesn't profess to speak the truth.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Broken noses and frustrated dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yiha, was it a long time ago I did some drabbles in this. I haven't ass obsessively followed the team this season and I'm disappointed in myself. That, and other fandoms and roleplays got in the way. 
> 
> But tonight: CL game! So. I got some urge to do a short little drabble so here it is.

Blood had painted Ramos’ white shirt in red polka dots. He had sat on the bench for the second half of the game. It hurt, like pretty fucking much actually, and Ramos hadn’t been able not to touch his nose, to nudge it as if to reprimand his bone and tissue from aching. Ronaldo had just given him a glance in their dressing room, one lopsided grin paired with a 

“Ah, Capi,” as Modrich commented Ramos’ damaged - possibly broken - nose and with that had turned back to Casemiro, both of their Spanish more heavy in Portuguese tunes as their tongues longed for the language of their mothers. 

A calp on Ramos' shoulder, a gently little shuffle as Ramos parted for the benches and Ronaldo continued up the stairs to their field, but then again, Ronaldo shook hands and patted backs with his teammates. A flutter of a wink from one brown eye before Ronaldo tilted his chin up and down to shoe Zidane that he had captured his coach’ last-second direction. 

“Ah, shit, Capi,” Ronaldo had repeated when the team gathered once more in their dressing room. The tease of a smile had vanished, Ronaldo’s brows furrowed, mouth set and Ramos could all but see the wheels of reprimands and accusations that spun around inside Ronaldo’s head. 

“Vamos,” Ramos replied back, strong and with a set mind, the edge of his word warmed by his never-ending optimism for the future. 

Ronaldo only shrugged, too locked in his mind replaying all the missed opportunities and what he could have done better to gift his team and his fans with a goal or four. Ramos patted Ronaldo’s shoulder, strayed back to share some words with Marcelo. Ramos didn’t turn to glance over his shoulder as he could hear the snap as Ronaldo’s locker getting shut and Ramos took his time sharing words with teammates and team staff alike before he shouldered his bag, headed to his car to drive back home.

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo... Hello. Let me tell you that I haven't written anything by myself for YEARS. Really, years and years ago. I mostly do roleplaying nowadays, but as I couldn't find a footie rp community on Tumblr I just had to get stuff outta me. Specially since I've been reading so much of your fics around here (where I've commented on some under the tag "E") and all the feels and gneingkj just got to strong to handle without smashing the keys into something more than just njanakgnal.
> 
> (Disclaimer: I do not own above mentioned persons, teams or any other than can be connected to real life persons. I don't get any money out of this and it's all imagination and doesn't profess to speak the truth.


End file.
